


stupid cupid, stop picking on me

by philophobiia



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abusive Parents, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religious Guilt, Stanley Uris Has OCD, They're all 17-18, Trauma, references to carrie, the losers all have issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 04:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21130784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philophobiia/pseuds/philophobiia
Summary: Then again, Stanley Uris likes to think a lot of things.He likes to think about even numbers and perfectly pressed polo shirts.He likes to think about words that aren’t slurred and perfect pronunciation.What he doesn’t like to think about is often what he does, which, more often than not, is murder clowns and disproportionate women created with oil paints.





	stupid cupid, stop picking on me

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a bit iffy on this one? Honestly Stan Uris is REALLY hard to write, I have SO much respect for the authors that write him often.
> 
> TW: Religious abuse/guilt, internalized and externalized homophobia, referenced/implied self harm, slurs

“Do you want to bring shame on me and your mother?”

“No, sir.”

“On the people of the synagogue?”

“No, sir.”

_It’s_ always _no sir._

———

Stanley Uris likes to think he isn’t as fucked up as this godforsaken town makes him think he is (‘which is pretty goddamn fucked up’, as Richie Tozier would oh-so-eloquently put it).

Then again, Stanley Uris _likes_ to think a lot of things.

He _likes_ to think about even numbers and perfectly pressed polo shirts.

He _likes_ to think about words that aren’t slurred and perfect pronunciation.

What he _doesn’t_ like to think about is often what he does, which, more often than not, is murder clowns and disproportionate women created with oil paints.

He certainly doesn’t like thinking about Bill Denbrough and his stupid hair, because it makes him feel dirty and like he’s _sinned._

Thinking about Bill Denbrough feels like an itch that he can’t reach no matter how far he stretches, like a wrinkle he can’t get out of his pants.

Stanley Uris _hates_ wrinkles in his pants.

———

Stanley can see the sun out of the corner of his eye and it’s so goddamn bright (who decided to make the sun that bright), and Richie’s talking his ear off.

“-aye, Stannie, you dig?” 

Stan glances at Richie, raising his eyebrows. “I wasn’t listening, but whatever you said I disagree with by default.”

Richie groans, stomping his foot like a five year old who just got his favorite toy truck taken away for bad behavior.

Eddie’s snickering behind his hand, kicking rocks into the backs of Richie’s heels. “You’re such a dumbass.”

“Awe, _Eddie_, my _love_, you flatter me!” Richie retorts cheerfully, whipping around to aggressively muse Eddie’s hair.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole, you _know_ that I hate that song.”

“Guh-_guys_,” Bill chastises, chuckling softly and glancing at Stan with an amused glint in his eye.

Stan grins at Bill briefly, fixing his gaze on the concrete of the sidewalk. He counts the steps he takes in his head, counting until he steps onto another square.

_One, two, three, four._

_One, two, three, four._

_One, two, three-_

“Hey, Stan, yuh-you good?” Bill asks.

“Yeah, fuckface, you okay?”

Stan looks up, pausing in his steps to look at Richie.

“Always, Trashmouth.”

(He’s never with them.)

———

Stan’s sitting at his desk in his room, methodically lining up the pencils above his notebook (for the fourth time), when he hears a soft knocking at his window.

He’s startled at first, seeing the gnarled and pale face of _her._

_She’s not real. She was_ never _real, she’s_ gone, _Stan._

And so he gets up, going to open the window briskly. 

“The hell are you doing here?”

Bill Denbrough himself balances on the roof, gripping the window’s ledge so hard his fingers are purpling.

“...can I-can I come in?”

Stan’s tempted to say no, but he never says no to Bill Denbrough.

“Sure. Just stay quiet. My parents are asleep.”

Bill crawls in as gracefully as he can, which isn’t very gracefully, and flops onto the bed, a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes on his face.

“What did you need?” Stan asks, closing the window with a soft wince.

Bill exhales heavily, playing with his fingers in between his legs. “I’m moving.”

Stan stares for a moment, blinking as if he’s never heard the word _moving_ before. “Sorry?”

“I’m muh-moving. We’re leaving d-Derry, Stanley,” Bill repeats, looking up at Stan through choppily cut hair.

“Oh,” is all Stan can say, hands dangling at his sides uselessly. “That sucks.”

Bill nods, picking at Stan’s bedspread. “It does.”

Stan hesitantly sits down at Bill’s side, biting down on his lip and twiddling his fingers. “Do the others know?”

“Just Eddie and ruh-Richie,” Bill shifts the collar of his shirt over and suddenly the room feels too hot.

Stan nods, pulling his legs up onto the bed and shifting his body to face Bill. Bill, with his too-big eyes and too-shiny lips and stupid, _stupid_ hair.

“Too many m-memories here, you know? My parents just thought-my parents just thought we needed a fr-fresh start. In-a new place.”

Stanley knows all too well. 

“I just w-wanted to come by. Say goodbye before-before I leave,” there’s a pregnant pause, “I’m gonna muh-muh-miss you. A lot.”

Stan licks his lips, looking Bill in the eye. He forgets how to speak.

“Bill, I’m-”

Bill leans in close and connects their lips, cutting Stan off.

Stan sinks into it, eyes slipping closed, but it’s over just as soon as it had begun. 

“I’m suh-so sorry,” Bill gasps, clenching his fist over his knee. “Stan-”

Stan shakes his head, avoiding eye contact. “It’s fine.”

Bill’s shaking his head, too, his stutter worsening. “Stuh-Stan, I’m s-so sorry.”

“Bill,” Stan begins, hesitantly placing a hand on Bill’s shoulder, “Bill, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

The room feels too empty and too full all at once, the once cool air now stifling.

“I just-I juh-just-I’m gonna miss you s-so much,” Bill whispers, head dropping to his shoulder, letting his cheek rest upon Stan’s hand. “Yuh-you’re my best f-friend.”

Stan nods, leaning forward to wrap his arms around Bill’s neck. When he pulls away, Bill’s eyes are watering and Stan wants to say something but something about the look in Bill’s eyes tells him to just leave it be.

“Are you...was that-” Stan begins, biting down on his tongue. He’s hoping that Bill didn’t mean it.

“No,” Bill replies almost immediately, wiping his eyes. “Nuh-not that there’s a-anything wuh-wrong, but I didn’t-I d-don’t know why I d-duh-did it.”

And Stan’s almost _disappointed_.

He opens his mouth to speak when he hears a sudden noise down the hall. “You need to go.”

“Wuh-”

“Leave, Bill,” Stan pleads, jolting to his feet as the door to his parent’s bedroom creaks open.

Bill nods, turning around and clambering out the window clumsily.

As soon as he’s out of site, Stan’s pulling the window back down and crawling back into his bed as quick as possible.

The door to his own room opens within a few seconds.

“Stanley?”

Stan stays quiet, clenching the sheets of his bed.

“Stanley. I know you’re awake.”

Donald Uris knows _everything._

Stan sits up, rubbing his eyes and looking anywhere but at his father. 

“Look at me.”

Stan hesitates, afraid that if he looks his father in the eye he’ll know, a fear he’s had since he came home from school in the first grade and locked himself in his room crying because he’d been thinking about marrying Richie Tozier.

“_Look_ at me,” Donald repeats, voice rougher and harsh.

Stan finally looks, meeting his father’s eyes. “Yes, sir?”

Donald waves his hand in an upward motion, commanding Stan to get up. “Follow me. We need to talk about something.”

“Yes, sir,” Stan repeats, sliding out of his bed and standing expectantly at his father’s side. 

Donald walks back out the door, making his way down the hall and to the staircase, and Stan immediately knows where they’re going and his heart sinks.

Stan follows anyways, though, like he always does, and soon they’re in Donald’s office, looking at the shelves of religious literature.

“Go get it,” Donald commands, and Stan’s done this enough to move without so much as a second of hesitation. He crosses the room, grabbing the Torah off the shelf with a soft grunt. He turns around, setting it on the desk in the center of the room.

There’s a heavy silence for a few moments before either of them speaks, and it’s only a few words before he’s interrupted.

“Dad, what-”

“I heard a rumor, Stanley,” Donald says, still standing in the doorway with a deep frown set into his face.

Stan’s blood runs cold.

“I heard a rumor,” he continues, voice cold as ice, “that you and Richie Tozier have been doing _things_ in the boys bathroom at school.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Stan insists, hands shaking so badly they might as well be those busted wind up toys you find at old toy stores.

“Don’t _interrupt_ me while I’m speaking,” Donald snaps, and boy, does that shut Stan up. “Stanley. Get on the floor.”

“Dad-”

“Get on the _floor_, Stanley.”

Stan nods, dropping to his knees on the floor.

“Bow your head.”

“Dad, I’m tired, please-”

“Bow. Your. Head.”

Stan does, clasping his hands together in his lap. 

“Pray for forgiveness, Stanley.”

_Forgive me, I’m sorry, forgive me please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry._

He’s at it for an hour before his father lets him go to bed, and another hour until Stan actually falls asleep.

———

“Yeah, and apparently his dad went fuckin’ psycho or some shit and, like, went off on him and his bones were found under the front porch,” Eddie yawns, rolling his shoulders.

“That’s fucking dumb, Eds. If I were going to kill my kid I wouldn’t bury the bones under the house,” Richie laughs, tossing a piece of popcorn at Eddie’s head.

Eddie huffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well you didn’t kill your kid, so you don’t know that it’s not true.”

“Can we just watch the movie please?” Mike interjects, all smiles and red cheeks.

It’s his first time watching Grease and Eddie and Richie have been talking the whole time.

Ben nods, legs slung over the arm of the couch. “Yeah, guys, take it to the bedroom.”

Eddie chokes on his water, shaking his head furiously. “As if, dude. Who’d go to the bedroom with the fucking Trashmouth?”

Richie’s smile falters, and Stan catches a hint of hurt in his face, but he’s back to laughing just as quickly. “I dunno, Eds, why don’t you ask my sweet Mrs. K?”

“Fuck off,” Eddie retorts shortly, flipping Richie off.

Stan chuckles softly, messing with the edge of the blanket he’s thrown over his shoulders.

“Hey,” Mike whispers, looking over at Stan, “you okay?”

Stan blinks, gaze meeting Mike’s. “Never better.”

———

It’s one in the morning and Stan’s throat still _hurts_. He’d been reciting from the Torah for hours now, vocal chords rubbed raw and sore. 

All he wants is to sit down and take a nap beside someone, to feel safe and warm.

So he does the only logical thing, calls the Tozier residence.

After a few rings, the phone is picked up, the slurred voice of Maggie Tozier answering his call. _“Hello?”_

“Mrs. Tozier,” Stan greets nervously, fiddling with the cord of the telephone and looking down the hall nervously. “It’s Stan. Uris. Is-is Richie there?”

Maggie sighs, voice becoming muffled as she presses the phone to her chest. _“Richard?”_ She yells, sounding tired and irritated. _“Richard!”_

_“He’s not here,”_ Maggie decides, raising the phone back to her lips. _“Sorry, Stanley.”_

“Don’t worry about it,” Stan murmurs, “sorry for waking you.”

He hangs up, staring at the ceiling with a palm pressed to his chest.

He’s close to just turning in and going back to bed, but he’s hit with another fit of longing for human contact.

Stan doesn’t even think about who he’s dialed until they pick up, Mike’s sleepy voice on the other end. 

_“Hello?”_

“Mike, hi, I’m-I’m sorry, I’ll just-”

_“Stanley? Are you okay?”_ Mike sounds more awake now, concern laced through his voice. 

Stan tries to say ‘yes’, but all that comes out is a small whimper.

_“...I’ll be there in ten minutes,”_ is all Mike says before he hangs up, the click of which as Stan blinking in confusion.

Stan folds his arms over his chest, squeezing his eyes shut and carefully beginning to walk down the stairs towards the front door. It’s painfully slow and Stan’s afraid that his father is going to get up at each second, but he makes it, slipping out onto the front porch with a sigh of relief.

Mike’s pulling up within five minutes.

“Mike,” Stan walks towards his truck, ready to apologize, but Mike envelops him in a hug that makes Stan melt right there. 

“Do you wanna go to some all night burger joint?” Mike asks, and he smells like cinnamon and coconut.

Stan shakes his head, pushing away. “I just-can we just go to yours?”

“Of course,” Mike agrees, leading Stan towards the truck.

Once inside, they sit in a comfortable silence until Mike breaks it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m sorry, Mike, but I-I can’t,” Stan mumbles as they pull up to the farmhouse Mike lives in.

“Hey,” Mike starts, reaching over to pat Stan’s knee, “it’s fine. Whatever you’re comfortable with, Stan. Just know that I won’t judge anything you say.”

“Thank you.”

Stan wants to say more, but, for now, it’s the best he can do.

———

As the weeks go on, Mike and Stan hang out more and more. 

Mike always smells like cinnamon and coconut, and Stan grows to love those scents more and more.

For once, Stan feels like he can breathe.

Stan never feels good for too long at a time.

———

They’re hanging out at Mike’s, up in his bedroom listening to Cyndi Lauper and doing homework. 

Stan turns a page in his textbook and he could swear he sees her. Her ugly, unsymmetrical, fucked up face. He throws the book, jolting back and raising his hands to his face.

He needs out, he needs to get her out of his head.

“Stan, Stan, Stan,” Mike chants like it’s a mantra, trying to calm Stan down without touching him. “Stan, it’s okay.”

Stan can’t breathe.

“Mike.”

“I’m right here, buddy, I’m here,” Mike promises, reaching forward to cup Stan’s cheek hesitantly. “I’m right here. I’m not leaving.”

“I can’t-I have to pray,” Stan murmurs, tugging his sleeves down his wrists. They itch again.

“Pray?” Mike asks, facade slipping just slightly. “Why do you need to pray, Stan?”

“I-sinning, I’m sinning,” Stan explains, shaking his head, “I just need to pray.”

Mike holds Stan’s face in his hands, frowning. “You’re not sinning, Stanley. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

“No?” Stan whimpers, eyes wet and shiny with unshed tears.

“No,” Mike repeats, rubbing Stan’s cheek with his thumb. “No, of course not, Stan.”

Stan nods, scratching his wrists. “Mike.”

“Hmm?” Mike hums, eyes searching Stan’s face. “What’s happening, buddy?”

“Can I stay?”

Mike chuckles softly, a noise that Stan thinks might be the most beautiful one in existence. “Of course you can.”

Stan stays over that night, sleeping in a pair of Mike’s old pajama pants and an oversized shirt.

It’s the best sleep he’s had in awhile.

———

It’s the middle of the night, and they’re laying in Stan’s bed. He finally convinced his parents to let Mike stay the night under the guise of a project.

“Mike?”

“Hmm?”

Stan hesitates, exhaling through his nose. “I think I’m in love.”

Mike’s silent for a moment before answering. Stan can hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s she like?” Mike asks, voice as gentle as always.

Stan’s voice is shaking when he speaks again, still uncertain as to what he’s doing. “...he’s awesome.”

Mike doesn’t respond.

“...Mike?”

“I’m sure he’s amazing, Stanley,” Mike replies suddenly, sitting up with a wide smile on his face. “He’s gotta be, if he’s caught the attention of Stan Uris.”

“You’re not-grossed out?” Stan asks, heart pounding.

“Of course not. Why, should I be?” Mike returns, tipping his head sideways.

“No. No, no no no. Of course not,” Stan repeats, shaking his head, “you shouldn’t be grossed out.”

Stan hasn’t smiled so big since before that summer of ‘89.

———

Stan doesn’t know how he was convinced to go to this stupid ass school dance, but here he is. Richie is dancing to whatever Hall & Oates song is playing over the speakers, and it’s horribly off-beat and Richie absolutely does not know how to dance. 

“Um-excuse me? Stan Uris?” 

Stan turns around, surprised to see Greta Keene standing behind him. “What?”

Greta rolls her eyes, winding a strand of hair around her finger. “Wanna dance?”

“I-” Stan makes a face.

Ben nudges his shoulder, nodding out at the dance floor. “Dude. Say yes.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stan nods, following Greta out to the center of the gym. Eddie and Richie are giving him side eyes from where they are, and Stan just shrugs back at them. Mike watches with a tiny frown on his face, sipping his Coke tentatively.

Once they’re on the floor, Stan holds out his hand to Greta. She takes it, placing her other hand on his shoulder.

However, as Stan tries to rest his hand on her waist, Greta pushes away. “What the fuck?”

Stan blinks, mouth set in a straight line. There’s a small crowd around the two of them.

“Did you think I was serious?”

Stanley feels like all the blood has been drained from his face. His vision blurs.

“Why would I dance with a fucking fag like you? I wouldn’t be caught _dead_ touching you.”

Stan can’t speak. It feels like he’s underwater and he can’t come up for air, just hopelessly flailing his arms in the hope that someone will pull him up. 

Then there are hands, pulling him back and walking him out of the double doors at the front of the school.

“Wh-” Stan starts, blinking and shaking his head aggressively.

Mike stands in front of him, holding out a plastic cup of water. “Drink.”

Stan obeys, clenching his eyes shut. “Sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything. Greta-she’s such a bitch,” Mike huffs, rubbing his forehead, “sorry about my language.”

“It’s fine,” Stan assures, leaning down to set the cup on the steps, “I didn’t wanna dance with her anyways.”

Mike laughs, eyes glinting in the light of the tacky strobe lights inside the school. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Stan smiles, running a hand through his curly hair. 

“Well,” Mike begins, somewhat awkwardly, “since you didn’t get to dance, I figured I could-well-we could dance out here. Just because you didn’t get to in there.”

His cheeks are colored red, bringing a smile to Stan’s face. “You want to dance with me?”

Mike nods, quickly backtracking after a moment. “I mean, only if you want to.”

“I’d love to,” Stan promises, stepping a bit closer.

Mike gingerly holds Stan’s hips, and Stan drapes his arms over Mike’s shoulders, and they’re just swaying and it’s honestly really awkward because neither of them actually know how to dance, but it makes Stan feel all warm and good inside.

Somehow they end up getting so close that Stan’s all but wrapped up in Mike’s arms, his face pressed up against the taller boy’s chest. 

“Mike?” Stan hums, looking up at Mike with his chin still resting on the other’s chest.

“Yeah?”

“Remember that boy I told you about?” Stan bites his lip.

Mike nods softly.

“Turns out he’s really good at making school dances not suck.”

Mike just smiles and rests his chin atop Stan’s head, humming along softly to the muffled song they’re swaying to in the background. “I’m glad.”

Stan thinks his new favorite smell might be cinnamon and coconut.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you, browsing AO3 at 2 am. Get a drink of water, get all warm and cozy, and go to bed. Take care of yourself <3


End file.
